Trust Me (Rough Love #3) by Annabel Joseph

was the wine.
    “An ego thing,” I retorted. “Don’t act like you’re surprised.”
    She asked me about my schooling, about my travels, about the most favorite thing I’d designed. I told her the truth about that too. There was no favorite thing. There were always regrets after the fact, when the pylons were sunk and the construction too far underway to make changes.
    “You don’t like your designs? Any of them?” she asked, as if this was the most tragic thing in the world.
    “Don’t you sometimes design things you don’t like once you’ve executed them?”
    “Yeah, but when that happens I melt them down and start over. I guess you can’t do that with a bridge.”
    “No. They’re a bit too permanent for that.”
    Everything about my life seemed permanent compared to Chere’s. We never talked about her family or childhood. She had melted that down and reused it, and transformed into this fascinating woman with freckles and curls and ridiculously kissable lips. I leaned across the table and yanked her toward me, and kissed her long and hard. That was probably the wine too.
    “Let’s walk some more,” I said.
    An afternoon storm was blowing in. I told myself that was why I took her to the apartment on Rue de Cambrai—to get out of the weather. The doorman greeted me and took us upstairs in the ancient elevator. Jean-Marc had been the doorman here since I was a child.
    “What is this place?” asked Chere, looking down the chandeliered hallway as I keyed in the code for the apartment.
    “One of my childhood homes.”
    “Oh, wow,” she breathed, as I struggled with the rustic knob and the decades-old wooden jamb. The door opened once I put my shoulder into it. As soon as it swung wide, I thought, What are you doing, Price? I tried to convince myself I only wanted to share the early nineteenth century architecture and decorative castings.
    “You used to live here?” She followed me inside, mouth agape. It was a grand apartment.
    “It’s one of my parents’ homes,” I said. “They still live here part of the year. Not this part, thank God.”
    “Your parents are alive?”
    I chuckled at her shock. “Does that surprise you? I’m not that old.”
    “It’s just…you never talk about them. I assumed they weren’t around anymore.”
    “They were never around.” The words bled out, clipped and bitter. I walked through the foyer and into the main rooms, flicking on lights to illuminate high ceilings and finely carved shelves. The sofas and tables were slipcovered, and I didn’t bother to uncover them. With the white, and the cold, bare surfaces, it felt like a mausoleum.
    Chere followed me, taking everything in. “Why didn’t we stay here instead of the hotel?” she asked.
    “I hate this place.” I softened my voice. “And the hotel’s nicer. Room service, housekeeping, Wi-Fi. The modern luxuries.” I led her to the window overlooking the street. We were six floors up, just as we were in New York. It never occurred to me until now.
    “Are those your parents?” she asked, eyeing a portrait in the adjacent room. After glancing at me for permission, she walked through the double doors to get a closer look at it. The portrait was ten years old at least, snapped at some society function, based on my father’s tuxedo and my mother’s diamond necklace and earrings. Chere turned back to me with a grin.
    “I never pictured you having parents. You know, being someone’s son.”
    “I was their only son. I had everything a child could wish for,” I said, and my breath slid through my lips in something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “We came here every year, for holidays, for vacations. Once we spent an entire summer.” I’d been a gawky adolescent then, not quite a teenager, but not a child. I stared around at the furniture, the walls, the grandness of everything which had barely changed over the years, then turned back to her. “I don’t know why I brought you here. This house depresses